Cartman 101
by Tendo Rei
Summary: After they left him, Cartman went on to college alone. But he sees one of his old friends one day. What will he say?
1. Chapter 1

Cartman 101

_Disclaimer: I don't own South Park, and if Trey Parker and Matt Stone are actually reading this: I'm sorry guys, but I gotta write._

* * *

In Park County community college it was late August, though you probably wouldn't be able to tell by the way people's breath became visible once it left their mouths. Another freak cold snap had hit, it occurred annually but it was always "freak" to the weathermen, and students cursed the early death of another summer. Students mixed and mingled in the quad as well as they could in their many layers of clothing and looked miserable.

The only one really unaffected by the cold was a junior student who was currently jogging up to the drinking fountain, sweat staining the armpits of his infrequently washed favorite sweater. Sweat poured from his temples and soaked his tousled brown hair, his knit cyan cap with the yellow puffball clenched in his fist. He stopped, gasping, by the drinking fountain, hands on his knees. Running was not a favorite pastime of Eric Cartman's; nor was jogging, Yoga, swimming, Pilates, bowling, or any other of the many physical education classes available to the student. In fact, if he could be said to have a favorite pastime, it would have to be sitting quietly and watching TV. Eating came a close second; while knowing that each snack cake was another step towards an early burial in a piano crate hadn't stopped Eric from making, well, a pig of himself, it _had_ taken much of the fun out of eating.

In fact, to Eric Cartman, it seemed as if the fun had gone out of everything lately. Lighting firecrackers and sticking them up a frog's business end just didn't have the same zing anymore, even shouting racial epithets at passing holiday parades had lost meaning for him. That might've been because, though Eric would never admit it, without someone else around, those activities are really just kind of a one-handed exercise. And he was, now, completely and utterly alone.

Even before college had started, him, Kyle, Stan, and Kenny had drifted apart. He could only guess what lead to the initial breakup of the four friends; perhaps it had never occurred to him that if you spend your every waking moment tormenting people, chances are they will eventually leave you. So he started out his first year of college with no one to talk to at all. Sure, one could always make new friends to replace the old, but Cartman's social graces had grown steadily poorer since he was eight.

To most, he was known as a large, shy boy who was clumsily aware of his bulk and prone to odd outbursts. Like that time the bitch from English 205 had dribbled part of her soda on him during a lecture. He had stood up and let her have it… and she had cried. Sobbed, even. Cartman had been taken aback, he had never genuinely frightened another human being in this manner and it genuinely perplexed him. After growing up with girls who gave better than they got, it was unnerving. Later the professor had taken him aside and told him it was in his best interest to drop the class.

That, and various incidents at the pool, track, greenhouse, and library had made it necessary for his mother to make frequent trips to the dean's office of whatever course he might be taking at the moment. In his younger days his mother's promiscuity had filled him with shame, now it just made him ashamed of himself. Liane Cartman was no longer the gutter beauty she had once been, and arthritis made even the most basic sexual favors painfully laborious, so he had learned to take control of himself. He had learned to bite his tongue whenever the urge to use it arose, and he went many a day without saying a vulgarity to anyone. Sadly, this did not help his isolation one jot.

He saw the rest of the gang around campus occasionally, not just his friends but others; Token, Tweek, even Wendy. They always seemed to be in a group, and always laughing. He made a point to adjust his schedule whenever he had close brushes with them; the last thing he needed were those turncoat assholes swooping down on him, attacking him, mocking him. He dreamed that it happened sometimes, that they descended on him and ripped him to shreds, fingers curled into claws, eyes burning with joyful wrath. They paid him back for all the years of insults, tricks, transgressions, and hostilities, and he could _feel_ everything they did to him, down to the minutest detail. It had become a regular thing, waking up mornings that way; the dream would get steadily worse and worse and just before he reached the point of no return he would be awake suddenly, in his own bed and drenched with cold sweat. He had learned to no longer wake his mother when this happened.

It didn't help.

Right now he should be on his way to a metal shop class, but his mom woke him up late again and the parking lot was on the other side of the campus. So he stopped here to rest, and possibly get his pulse down from the high hundreds. He stooped, hands on his knees, winded. You would think that he would be a success story, someone as driven as him would've become a High School wonder; dropped the weight, applied his brain, become both the darling and bastard of his peers.

But no.

The drift from his friends had gradually effected his self-esteem, and he stopped trying to rile his friends out of their apathy towards him. Now, like most young men his age, Cartman was at college with no idea what he wanted to do with his life. He didn't want to pick a career, couldn't focus on anything more than a semester. Cartman had no motivation anymore; he had always looked to his friends to see what step he should take next, and with them out of the picture he was drawing a complete blank.

He supposed the Jew would become a lawyer, it ran in his family. Stan would probably get a football scholarship, he was that good. Kenny seemed like he too would take on his father's profession; drinking heavily and sitting around all day looking at porn. In between procuring the many controlled substances he practically lived on, of course.

* * *

Cartman hit the lever on the fountain, drinking greedily. The water hurt his teeth and burned his throat it was so cold. He made a resolution, one he made every month, to sign up for a PE class next semester. He was better now, the stitch in his side eased by rest, and he felt he could continue on. But he straightened up, and saw something that stopped him in his tracks.

Kyle Broflovski, _the_ Kyle Broflovski, was making his way over to the drinking fountain opposite his with an effortless gait. He chatted idly with a girl over his shoulder, arms that had lengthened greatly since Cartman last talked to him swinging easily at his sides. Kyle wore a basketball jersey. The Jew had really shot up in his formative years and was now a little on the tall and lanky side. His face was clear and nearly unblemished. Eric unconsciously put a hand the crater on his left cheek. Kyle's hair hadn't lost its signature curl, but a Jewfro really suited him, now.

A half a smile crept up Cartman's face.

Kyle's eyes hadn't changed since the time they would narrow in indignance at Cartman's many jibes, still green and sincere-looking. He was probably involved in most if not all of the campus's activist clubs. What he wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall when Kyle took the stage. He was about to bow out carefully, avoiding attracting the Jew's attention and any question of what he had done the past few years, but a funny urge sprang up, like the ones he would get in the old days.

He would go right over to Kyle-no! he would shout at Kyle _where he was_, surprise him, taunt him, give him a few verbal jabs for old times sake. He hadn't had an occasion to in so long. The group always seemed like an amalgam rather than a group of people , how could you pick out the individual?

No, here was an excellent time. And oh joy! The girl who had been following him came up behind, smiling and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She was slender and brown-haired and probably his girlfriend. His suspicion was confirmed when they made kissy-faces at each other, making his toes curl inside his shoes. All he had to do was wait for the perfect moment, when Kyle's defenses were completely lowered and his attack would do maximum damage. He would get Kyle and his little girlfriend, too.

Kyle and his lady friend stayed for a few long minutes, enveloped in that special fugue that numbs all young lovers to the passage of time. Cartman would've tapped his foot if he though he could get away with it. Come _on_. He wanted to scream at Kyle.

At last he seemed to finish and turned to leave. At that time, two things happened.

One: Kyle's lady friend happened to drop her compact on the ground and stooped to pick it up, missing what would immediately occur.

Two: Kyle turned, not in the direction Cartman expected he would, and accidentally locked eyes with his old friend.

Time seemed to stop at that point. It was as if Cartman was in a great iron cast, pressure coming at him from all sides. He couldn't take his eyes away, couldn't break this paltry little contact with Kyle. Kyle's eyes displayed blurry confusion for a moment, then puzzlement, and finally recognition. What followed this was something so revolting it made Cartman wish he had gone too soon, intruding on Kyle's private moment with the girl, shouting and screaming every curse in his rather lengthy arsenal.

Pity showed in Kyle's eyes. Sickening, disgusting pity. His face remained stoic, but perhaps there was just the teensiest quirk of an eyebrow, the smallest curve of a lip.

Cartman was furious. All the words, built up inside of him all this time without release rose like hot steam in him, all the comebacks that had no answer, all the phrases and concepts and emotions bottled up inside of him came roaring out, burning the air between the two of them in a verbal d-day.

But only in his mind.

As much as he would dearly love to pretend that things could resume the same as they always had, that someday he and Kyle would once again cross swords, Kyle had ruined that forever for him. It could never be the same now.

His fist clenched involuntarily. He wanted to strangle that Jew, beat him, hurt his former friend and put hate back into his eyes, he didn't want his goddamn pity! He would take a thousand insults, a lifetime of injuries, before he let that bastard feel sorry for _him_ . He stood there, staring at Kyle, his gaze hot and still. He wished several kinds of death on Broflovski, some of them very inventive, involving everyday objects you wouldn't normally consider murder weapons.

Whether or not he would've said something eventually is hard to say, because at that moment Kyle's lady friend straightened up with a cheerful "Got it!", her mirror triumphantly grasped in one hand. That one phrase was like a bucket of cool water on his body, and the murderous hate shooting from his eyes sank once more to the bottom of his cholesterol-encrusted heart.

Without another thought, he turned and quickly began walking in the opposite direction, hands stiffly in his pockets. He was going the wrong way, away from his class, but that didn't matter. He was late anyway, he couldn't get into any more trouble than he already was. He walked resolutely forward, shoulders hunched and stiff against the invasion, the feeling of people's eyes raking his back, like pins pricking his body.

It was as if an apocalyptic battle had taken place. He felt exposed, small. Sweat beaded his brow, though he had since cooled off from his run. His chest felt funny and hurt, like a giant rubber band contracted inside it. He didn't know where he was going, just that he wanted to walk and walk until he was an new person or, failing that, his old self again. Stupid Kyle just _had _to ruin their chance of speaking after all this time, damn Jew!

Why did he always get in the way, mess everything up? Even back in their elementary days, Kyle had been his main antagonist in every scheme, always showing up at just the right moment with just the right people. He had enjoyed their mental jousting, but it had merely been a minor side effect compare to other more memorable ones, like chronic annoyance. Kyle always had to do the right thing, what he believed was right, no matter what. That was why he so loved to mess with Kyle's head, and that was why he had left. He couldn't stand Kyle "helping" him, not after all this time.

Damnit, bastard had no _right_…his eyes smarted and his chest hurt harder, and when he went to wipe his eyes he found they were wet. Probably from the chill in the air. Colorado _was_ such a dry cold, it chapped your lips and hurt your eyes. _That_ was why his eyes were watering. He was not crying over the Jew-boy and his preppie friends. Hell, what did any of them do that was worthy of his time? He walked on, no longer seeing or caring where he went.

* * *

Kyle blinked. That had looked an awful lot like Cartman. It certainly gave him stink eye like Cartman. If it had been Cartman, he had lost a little weight since High School. But man, he didn't look healthy anyway. Smooth, thin fingers turned his chin, and he stared Dee full in the face.

"Hello, space cadet." She murmured gently. "Anybody home? What are you looking at?"

It took him a bit to process what she was asking him.

"What? Dah-no. Oh, no. I was- I wasn't looking at anything." He stuttered.

She smiled, showing off even, white teeth. "Are you sure?"

Kyle looked off in the direction the other man had gone.

It _had_ been Cartman. Jesus Christ.

"Yeah." He said. "I'm sure."

* * *

_Author's note: wow, it only took me an hour to write this(and three to proofread). I can't tell if that's a good or a bad thing. Anyway, I've wanted to do a story like this for a long time, Cartman's psychology intrigues me greatly. Like most bullies, he needs people to play off of or there's nothing for him to do. Also, I don't think he really likes himself all that much. He's so attached to Kyle because he 'feeds' him so much, among other reasons. Well, that's my take on it anyway. I've never been to a Colorado community college, so I have no idea what one would be like. So I tried to keep it as non-descriptive as possible, though I think I still got a lot of things wrong. Or not. Oh well. Be seeing you._


	2. Chapter 2

**Cartman 101: Chapter 2**

* * *

Cartman sat on the number 23 bus, holding his stomach

Cartman sat on the number 23 bus, holding his stomach. His insides were squirming like a bag of toads, but they had been doing that for some time. In fact, they did that every time he went to school now. A week's worth of nothingness had elapsed since what he dubbed "the Kyle incident" yet he still had anxiety attacks and this… whatever you'd call it. He wouldn't call it butterflies. Nothing so delicate and pretty. Not in his stomach.

He leaned back against the worn padding, breathing in the eye-watering aroma of bum sweat and stale urine. He hated riding the bus, but his mother had backed over a dog again and he had barely hidden the body in time. Lianne refused to wear her glasses because they made her look "old", and Eric bit his tongue. Better to not say anything. People would laugh, people would whisper. And the only thing he hated more than other people laughing at him was other people laughing at his mother. He allowed himself a little daydream of his graying mother, back hunched against the torrent of humiliation, weeping uncontrollably.

He broke it off before emotion could show on his face, but his resolve was strengthened. He wouldn't complain, even if the weird old bum with the lazy eye got on and leered at him again. He was a big boy now, he had to be. There was no one to protect him from the world now.

* * *

Kyle leaned against his bedroom wall, gazing off into space. He was still in a bit of a daze from the other day. It had been like walking into a dead person. Cartman, who had been left behind in the sprint to early maturity. Cartman, who had been discarded like an old pair of underwear when the others moved on. Cartman, the anti-semitic asshole who had been the bane of Kyle's existence for most of his life. Cartman, one of his oldest friends, whom he had abandoned callously without so much as a "see ya"…

No, that wasn't fair. To himself or Cartman. True, their parting hadn't been the best of goodbyes; as a matter of fact, he distinctly remembered rubbing his nose in the dirt and calling him a "goddamn fat-titted mama's boy", but he hadn't been the only conspirator. There had been others.

Yeah, others…

Stan, awkward and pimply yet moving with a forceful kind of grace, slamming kick after kick into the fat boy's heaving side. Kenny, unholy glee shining in his eyes, his fly unzipped, dispensing a stream of liquid justice onto their former friend. Butters, with a half-brick. Clyde, his fingers curled. Token. Tweek.

Many boys shouldered the blame for Cartman's extended absence from school and his unspoken but official exile. In fact, he had probably been kindest to the fat one, dropping a sports towel next to the sobbing outcast, chucking his books in a place where they were more likely to be found than overlooked. He had done a lot for him.

…so why did he feel so guilty? Why did he feel…responsible?

…Damnit. He needed to go see Cartman again.

* * *

Cartman sat hunched over in the furthest seat from the front, willing the teacher not to call on him. He couldn't remember if he had done the homework for this class, or worse, if he was even _in_ this class. If he was, he was late because of the circuitous route he took to avoid the dreaded quad and the bile-tasting memories it dredged up.

The other boys towering over _him_ for once, murder in their eyes, improvised weaponry in their hands. He had no doubt they would've killed him if they could've gotten away with it. Beating on him, slapping his tender places, pinching his fat and squealing like pigs. Even he was surprised at the turnout his beating enjoyed. He saw kids he hadn't talked to since fourth grade, united by the prospect of revenge.

He had been a little surprised by the utter savageness of the beating, and who was doing it. Stan, Mr. class president, swearing a blue streak, his face red, punctuating each curse with a kick to his ribs. Kenny, doing unspeakable things to his parka and backpack. Kyle–

His stomach clenched violently, and he wasn't sure if he was going to cry or throw up. The juxtaposition of the bookish, handsome Kyle of a few days ago with the screaming Jew-harpy of his memories did unpleasant things to his gut. He tightened everything and tried to breath deeply, willing the nausea away. Not that the professor would even notice him puke; when he had come in earlier, trying to sneak his way in and making about as much noise as a bull elephant, the droning man hadn't so much as batted an eye. A girl three seats down gave him a concerned look and he flushed even more.

He could barely stand to look at women his age, even if they were in the magazines that Kenny loved. The ones with girls on the front covers and no front covers on the girls. He didn't have anything against their bodies; their luscious, hypnotic curves, their smooth skin, just their eyes. Their eyes that raked his body like white-hot pins, that stabbed into his soul every time he made eye contact.

It was only certain girls, though. Not the hollow, false girls who wanted you to look at them, did everything they could to make you notice. No, the nice girls. Like Kyle's new friend. Or old, hell, he didn't know how long they'd been together. Probably a long time, she latched onto him with all the familiarity that comes with a well-established harmony.

The memory of her sliding her long nails down Kyle's arm made him shiver, and the girl frowned again. God, he had to get out of there. This wasn't one of his subjects anyway. He cast about for any possible obstacles, any legs waiting to trip him, and darted clumsily for the door. No raucous laughter followed him, and when he glanced back, no one sneering after him. Out in the hall he could breath again, and he did.

Big, slow breaths. In, out. Relax, like the swimming coach taught him. In, ou–

Oh _god_, she was headed right for him!

His stomach immediately tightened, and he had to go to the bathroom.

Her hair was up in a high ponytail and she was wearing gloves, but it was _**her**_ all right. The same dreamy look that she had given Kyle, the bubbling laugh that made him ashamed to look at her. Her and a handful of friends sauntered casually down the hall with that easy gait that people thinner than him had.

She hadn't seen him. He turned, heart pounding in his throat, praying she wouldn't. The laughing flock passed, warm, scented air tickling his ear, making his eyes water. He stared after her, her nicely formed backside flexing inside her winter jeans. Another stab to his stomach and he bolted for the boy's room. Blatantly ignoring the _don't run_ signs, he dashed headlong through the halls, swerving around other students. He had to get to the bathroom, he was gonna hurl.

He barely made it.

He stood over the bowl, teary-eyed, wiping his mouth. How had it gotten this bad? He couldn't even _think_ of his former friends without suffering an anxiety attack, and just seeing someone close to Kyle made him physically ill. He knew he should go to a doctor, but in South Park all doctors were either incompetent or evil. Besides, what if something was really wrong with him? Supposing the doctor found out just how much of a sociopath he was, and told everyone? That might make life in this little shitburg a mite more unbearable, but it might also mean he would get sent away. He would be studied like an insect under glass, an underage Hannibal Lector, crapping on a toilet without a seat.

He spit one final time and flushed. He just wouldn't tell anyone, that's all. No one had to know, no one needed to. Who was he really hurting besides himself? And time and tide had already proven how little other people cared about him. He would simply fold up inside himself, slowly becoming more reclusive and isolated from other people. He would die and be buried like mister kitty years earlier, unmourned and unmissed. And he was very prepared to accept that.

But a direct contradiction lay waiting outside the stall, as he found when he exited. He jumped in surprise, and a mixture of other, less namable emotions. The person patiently handed him his scruffy bookbag, maddeningly calm eyes catching and holding his.

"We need to talk." Kyle Broflovski stated calmly.

* * *

_Author's note: well, this turned out to be pretty popular, so I couldn't help revisiting it. Yes, I'll be adding more chapters, and no, it's not ending on a cliffhanger._


	3. Chapter 3

**Cartman 101: Chapter 3**

* * *

The murmur of voices and the occasional clink of silverware made for a soothing backdrop, even if the centerpiece of this play was as tense as you could get

The murmur of voices and the occasional _clink _of silverware made for a soothing backdrop, even if the centerpiece of this play was as tense as you could get. Greens were mauled, mashed potatoes crushed by a fascist spoon, Salisbury steak was stabbed again and again-

"Oh for chrissakes Cartman!" Kyle snapped. "Just _eat_ the damn thing!"

That little outburst had been the first verbal communication between the two since Kyle surprised him in the bathroom. Cartman had sat, sullenly staring at his meal(Kyle's treat) enjoying the silence. It was a long and uncomfortable silence, almost a third guest at the table. Focusing on that meant he didn't have to look at how thick his arms were compared to Kyle's, or how graceful the Jew was even when opening his milk, or how-

Eyes on Kyle, he crunched his fork into the wilty salad, opened his mouth gapingly wide, and took a bite. Kyle's face relaxed noticeably.

"There, not so hard is it?" As a response, Cartman glared poisoned death into his soul. Kyle didn't see. He was scouting other tables for people he knew.

"_Fuck you_." He muttered under his breath instead.

"Bet you miss saying _that_, don't you?" Kyle asked without even turning. Silence.

"Oh, _now_ you shut the fuck up. For fifteen years it was nothing but 'hey Jew!' and 'how's it hanging, Christ-killer?', but get you away to college for a few years-"

"_Big-titted mama's boy._" Cartman mumbled under his breath, loud enough so that even people at the next table caught it and glanced curiously at them. It was a trick he had developed, and it still blindsided Kyle. He gaped at Cartman, mouth opening and closing.

"W-w-what?"

Cartman didn't answer, just took a long, pointed sip of 2 milk.

"H-how…how do you…"

"I remember Kyle."

The memory and the bad feeling that came with it washed over them, Kyle reddening in guilt, Cartman internalizing his sorrow and anger.

Finally, Kyle tried to recover. "I'm sure that whatever you remember, it's probably pretty bad-"

"-sperm-catcher, dog nuts, piss pants, cow fu-"

"_Okay_!" Kyle shouted, exasperated. "_Okay_, it _is_ as bad as you remember. We did a horrible, horrible thing. No one deserved to have that happen to them, not even you. I _still_ feel guilty about it. There."

Long silent moments slid by. Cartman gazed intently into his eyes, until he had to look away. It was amazing that, after all this time, Cartman still knew all of Kyle's buttons and how to push. But then, he _was_ still Cartman. Nothing could change that.

"You know," Cartman said, daintily selecting a Salisbury morsel, "You're only doing this because you feel bad about what you did."

Kyle sighed and laid his head on the table. "Cartman, don't even…"

Cartman nimbly sidestepped the hanging threat and continued. "You're not sorry that you did it to me, you're just sorry because the do-good Hebrew has blood on his hands and he thinks he can buy it off with pretty words and a free lunch." Cartman took another sip of milk, wiped his mouth off with his sleeve and smiled nastily. "Isn't that true?"

Kyle refused to play into his trap, he wouldn't shout back no matter how much he wanted to, no matter how he pricked him. He wouldn't give him ammo.

"You know that's not true." He forced himself to say evenly.

Cartman gave another nasty smirk. "Oh, it is, Kaaahhle, it is." Cartman's old nickname made his skin crawl. "You're only doing this to relieve your guilt. Well, I won't let you Kaaaahle. I won't go away, no matter how hard you scrub, you'll always have my stain on your skin." He licked his lips with a very red tongue.

Kyle found himself following that tongue, mesmerized by it as if it were a cobra. The maddening, seductive dance of argument and insinuation was beginning again, and he felt trapped in its clutches once more. The crafty spider was weaving his arguments, which Kyle would dutifully follow like a puppet on strings, the same silky thread that enclosed him also controlled him.

Kyle's eyes unfocused. The voices of the other student became a soothing drone.

Cartman smiled an encouraging, but not entirely nice, smile. "_Kaaaaahle?_"

The way he stressed his name, hissing it in a way that sounded both comforting and threatening, merely tightened the spell in Kyle's abdomen. He found himself licking dry lips and opening his mouth-

Half a soda and a cup of coleslaw found their way down his shirt.

"Hey, _watchit_ asshole!" The offending diner shouted, then walked off, lunch completely forgotten.

And with that clumsy gesture, the spell was broken. Kyle shoved his chair back bodily, breathing unevenly. Cartman looked at him through slit eyes, expression unreadable. He debated saying something, at one point opening his mouth, but thought the better of it. He hastily grabbed his bag and plodded away, glancing behind as if afraid of pursuit.

Cartman sat for a while after, gazing at nothing in particular, sipping his milk. Finally, he got up and dumped his nearly uneaten lunch in the trash and walked out.

* * *

Kyle fled through the halls, running into people, shouting half-hearted apologies behind him. He finally stopped when a stitch stabbed in his side and rested, spots dancing behind his eyes.

What was going _on_ back there? It was like all of their childhood arguments, but more potent, more…was there a word for what it was? Creepy? Yes. Unhealthy? Definitely. Unpleasant?...well…

Kyle couldn't really admit it until now, but he did miss his arguments with Cartman. Cartman was like the bad part of his soul; every opinion that he knew to be wrong, every concept of every wrong thing in the world made flesh, that was Cartman. He added a spice to life, gave an otherwise bland existence flavour. Because, let's face it, he was a goody-goody.

Home to school to home again, study, practice, go to sleep and the next day start all over again. Hell, even Dee was a symptom. The two had barely been kissing a year, he still felt awkward holding her hand in the presence of others. Intimacy frightened him a little, maybe because it reminded him of…

_Waking from sleep in the cave, Cartman looking at him intently, face inches from his…_

_The perverse delight Cartman took in Kyle's suffering after seeing The Passion…_

_Cartman taking special care in torturing Kyle more than the others, focusing only on that which made him guilty and ashamed…_

He shook himself. Sweet _Christ_. He didn't have a weird latent masochistic thing for Cartman, did he? As a Jew, he had shame coming at him from all directions, but _this_…

* * *

Cartman sat on the bus, staring at nothing. The bus swung onto Birch street, and the bum with the lazy eye got on. He grinned at Eric, curling his lip and exuding a foul combination of alcohol breath and toothrot. Eric ignored him until the bum nudged him with his bottle, pushing him. Eric calmly folded his arms and stared at him, pushing back. After three blocks, the standoff was over. The bum grumbled and looked elsewhere, getting up to find a new seat. Eric allowed himself a small smirk of triumph, gazing contentedly at his reflection. Tomorrow would be interesting…

* * *

_Author's note: Let's play spot-the-innuendo! But seriously, I love writing the love-hate thing betwixt these two. It's just so…fun. Kyle goes after Cartman because he has to, it's in his nature. Cartman knows this and exploits it. Around and around we go. Still got only a vague idea of how to end this, and I hope it won't be disappointing. Salute._


	4. Chapter 4

**Cartman 101: Chapter 4**

* * *

Kyle knew who, if anyone could, would help him. He sneaked furtively down the hall as the English classes let out, teachers ousting their students into the hall. He was hard to spot, as diminutive as always in a crowd, but in the end Kyle picked out his blue windbreaker. Baby blue had always been his favourite color, when coupled with his yellow hair it was quite adorable, a stigma he never could escape. He chatted with some friends for about two-thirds of the hall, Kyle skulked behind and felt like a criminal. Finally, his friends turned off to go down the stair to the left and he went to the right. Kyle did a quick little jog, trying not to be too conspicuous.

"Butters!" he called, trying to sound casual. Butters flinched almost imperceptibly a second before turning around. Kyle noticed. Recognition, joy, and a microscopic measure of relief flooded Butters' face, and he gave Kyle a great big wave.

"Wull hiya Kyle! It's been a while, huh?" Butters voiced had changed as little as his face, wide open and honest. But there was a reserve there that Kyle hadn't noticed before, a caution lurking just behind those smiling eyes. He grinned back and followed Butters down the stairs, spouting the usual platitudes. It was all a formality, really. It had only been two months since they had last seen each other, at a party at Clyde's. Through it all, Kyle caught an undertone in Butter's warm greeting, a prompt to hurry the hell up and get to whatever he wanted to ask. That disturbed him a little, a patch of blight in a sunny meadow. He wondered whether this was new or it had been growing in the boy all along and he had failed to notice. It was hard to say which theory disturbed him more.

Finally, when he was sure they were more or less alone, he made his move.

"Hey, Butters," he said mock-casually. "I ran into…" _an old friend_? "…someone."

"Oh?"

"Cartman."

"_Oh._" Shutters went down behind Butters' eyes. Yet again, there was a part of him sealed off from outside access, some bit of trust that had died in him.

"H-how was it?" He hadn't stuttered in years. "Di-did'ja hit him?"

Kyle was a little taken aback. "What? No! I just…I said hi. And I bought him lunch."

"Oh. Well." He broke off with a little shrug, as if to say: _if that was all, then…_

"I think I might have…ended it a little soon though."

Butters' eyes darkened. "I don't think so."

"You really-"

"Boy! It sure is beautiful out today!" Butters said too brightly, pointedly looking outside. "Ah-I sure am glad I walked to school today, heh-heh."

Fine. If Butters wanted to drop the subject, he'd drop the subject. He'd get onto what he really wanted to say.

"Butters?"

"Hmm?"

"When you knew Cartman…I mean, you used to hang out with him, right?"

It was true. For a time Kyle had wondered if Butters had replaced him as Cartman's pet hate, but then they all bullied Butters from time to time. You couldn't really help it, it was a pheromone he gave off or something.

Butters nodded stiffly, as if he knew where this was going.

"Did you ever…d-did you ever get the feeling when you hung out with him that-"

Butters spun him around and thumped him against the wall, breathing heavily. Kyle, outweighing him by at least thirty pounds, could do nothing but throw his hands up in shock. Butters looked conspiratorially right and left before licking his lips and hunkering down next to Kyle's ear.

"Yuh-you wanna know what it was like spendin' time with Cartman? It was the most buh-_brutal_ time of my life! Eric muh-made me wish I were _**dead**_, and that's somthin'. Look at my family, Kyle. Do you know how bad it has to be for me to wanna never've been born, huh? _Huh_?"

Butters hand leapt to his throat, not strangling but holding firmly.

"But tha-that's not the worst part! The worst part is he…he can make you do stuff you don't really wanna do, be-because _he_ wants you to. And you can't even say no, c-cause then he'll get mad. _Real_ mad. I-it's somethin' weird about him, he treats you like he likes you… _like_ likes you…o-only…he don't know what to do with you, so he hurts you. And he makes you thank him for it. Th-th-_that's _what it was like."

They looked each other in the eye for a long time, Kyle a little afraid for his life. Butters' gaze was too intense to meet, it would've been easier to stare at the sun. He settled for the knot between his eyebrows. After long minutes, Butters' hand fell limply away and his gaze sank to the floor. It seemed the conversation had ended. Kyle stuck around for a minute, unsure of what to do.

"…Are you o-"

"Go." One word, a command not to be disobeyed. Kyle picked up his bag and beat a hasty retreat.

* * *

Another men's room, same diff.

He splashed water on his face and looked at his teary eyes in the mirror. Contacts were worth it, but sometimes he missed his old glasses. They had gone everywhere with him since the sixth grade, suffered every indignity. Until, that is…

Cartman.

Two syllables that could mean so many things, the answer to many questions. Cartman had sat on them, sniggering, breaking into laughter as Kyle stumbled blindly around the school bus, tears of anger dotting his eyes. That had been the straw that broke the camel's back, not the hand-in-warm-water at a coed sleepover, not the stink bomb on the trip to Yosemite, not the Tabasco sauce, _that_. An act of simple cruelty had shut off Kyle's pity, spurred him to action with the other boys. Funny how that happened. They all seemed to tire of him at once, a push here and a pull there and suddenly they were an angry mob. Even Butters, sweet, simple Butters had called for his blood. And deservedly so, the indignities he must've suffered under Cartman's thumb probably outweighed everyone else's put together.

In the end though, had it been so bad? In some strange ways, his cruelty benefited them all. His glasses breaking finally called his parent's attention to his astigmatism, spurred them into buying contacts. Butters had become more popular once it was leaked how horribly Cartman treated him, how much he had endured with a patient smile before snapping and shoving dirt clods in his face during softball practice. He had been insane with rage, beating him savagely before the bigger boy used his natural advantage and sat on him. The boys had to rescue him, foaming at the mouth, from under Cartman's sweaty bulk yet fend him off at the same time. Even to the last he had been at Cartman's throat, and through it all Cartman had been laughing hysterically.

Funny that Cartman could still be such a bastard even while his life was threatened. But that was the scary part; he didn't care. He didn't. He didn't give a crap who fought him and with what, he simply and brutally beat them back. Friends, enemies, boys, girls, he didn't give a shit. A lifetime of protecting his own interests had taught him to value nothing higher than his pride, and only when that was in danger did he truly get brutal.

Kyle shivered. In was one thing to have a hetero crush on someone, it was another to have one on a junior madman adept at twisting people's feelings around. He had thought, all these long years, that by refusing to be pulled along on Cartman's rope, that he had saved himself. Perhaps, though, he had only really made him angry…

* * *

_Author's note: I love butters. He's so innocent and the twisted love/hate relationship he has with Eric is almost worse than Kyle's. _


	5. Chapter 5

**Cartman 101: Chapter 5**

* * *

He legged it across the quad, puffing for breath though he had not been running very long. He had an irrational fear of being seen, a fear he had thought long extinct…

"_Aw, what's the maddew? Lil' Jewbs bwoke his glasses?" Harsh, mocking laughter punctured his tough inner shell, boring painfully into his unprotected inner self. The laughter stung, tears dripped down his chin like a sniveling toddler's. They were noticed and provided fuel for more vicious mirth._

"_Heh-heh, heh, hey guys, jewbs is crying! Aw, Kaaahle, did Nancy Kerrigan take silver again?"_

_His sorrow turned to despair, to revolting self-pity. To anger._

_A flame flared up in his soul, white-hot and eternal. It was a hatred like none he had ever felt, all-encompassing and fierce. He __**hated**__ Eric Cartman. He hadn't realized the true meaning of the word until now, but now he felt its true glory. He was a towering inferno; he was all the flames of heaven and hell. He knew wrath._

_Outside, nothing had changed. But inside, he was quite different._

_Something had broken with that last jab, the irresistible force had met the immovable object and something had given. _

…_Also, this was different. He couldn't quite put his finger on what bothered him. It felt like…betrayal? Was it really? After all, Cartman was always fucking with his glasses, hitting him in the back of the head, flicking them off his nose. They were constantly scuffed, scratched, scraped, and scored. But Cartman always halted from the taboo of actually taking away Kyle's vision. There were just some things you didn't fuck with. It was the code of the dudes._

_But since when did Cartman ever care about rules? Or friends? He didn't care about anyone but himself, no matter how much you gave him he never gave back. No matter how someone tried to improve him, change him, make him understand other's feelings, he would always be a cold racist bastard who humiliated you regularly and mocked your feelings. He could never feel empathy. He was no one's friend. _

…_He had to go._

_It was just as Kyle reached this philosophical plateau that Stan noticed what was going on and tore their fat friend away from Kyle._

"_Kyle–__**fuck**__–Kyle, are you all right dude? I'm sorry I couldn't get here sooner I…" He trailed off as he took in the full horror before him. "…Dude…your glasses…"_

"_He did it." Kyle spat out, no longer caring who heard. "He finally fucking did it. I hate him dude. There's, like, nothing good about him Stan. Nothing. He's just a fat fucking piece of apathy wasting air that __**three**__ better people could be using. He's a fucking plague, Stan." He paused, lip wobbling, as fat tears rolled down to his chin. "I hate him, dude. I fucking hate him."_

"_Hey, hey," Stan said soothingly. "I know, man, I know. He's evil. C'mon, let's get you to the nurse's." In addition to the glasses, his face had acquired scrapes from the pavement and Cartman's trapperkeeper. Stan helped his best friend up, guy code prevented him from doing anything more intimate than brushing him off and guiding him inside with a hand on his shoulders, but once they were safely away from curious eyes he wrapped Kyle up in a hug, making soothing noises and patting his back. He comforted him until Kyle ran out of moisture, heaving dry sobs but unable to produce any more tears. Then they went to the nurse's station. _

_Before they opened the white door, Kyle turned to whisper to his best friend, so quiet Stan was only just sure he'd heard._

"_Cartman can't get away with this." He murmured. "He has to pay."_

_Stan nodded, understanding, and slipped away. _

_The others were all waiting outside the gym; they had been there since word reached the schoolyard what Cartman had done. Nearly everyone was there. Clyde, Token, Tweek. Even Butters, with his earnest blue-button eyes dead serious and his little mouth arranged into a grim line. The fatass himself would be striding home, humming Motown hits to himself. Stan looked them all in the eye, found no weakness. They were all of one mind. All it would take now is a word or two._

"_It's time." He told them._

Kyle dropped beneath one of the quad's redwoods, side thoroughly stitched. Panic made poor running company. He stretched out beneath the trees canopy, breathing deeply. He was not alone.

"Hi Kaaaahle." Cartman said.

* * *

He had been tailing Kyle all morning, his heart thumping. The excitement of the hunt seasoned with the danger of getting caught made his blood race and his breath short. He had lost Kyle briefly outside the English hall, but just as he thought he'd lost him for good Kyle had come out the other end of the building, ducking furtively. It was then Cartman knew he had to surprise him, corner him so he wouldn't have any chance of getting away.

He knew there was something abnormal about stalking a former friend across a college campus, it just wasn't done. But everything that involved Kyle just ended up so…weird.

Like in the cave of the winds, so long ago, he had been ruminating his brilliant plan to smuggle gold doubloons out of their prison, and it had ended…strange.

Of course, his thoughts turned to his constant foil, the Jew. He had mocked his inferior intellect, taunting him even as he slept that he was powerless before the mighty dynamo of Eric Cartman…and their faces had wound up inches apart. The sudden intimacy hadn't really impressed upon him until Kyle opened his eyes and gave him a confused and paranoid stare.

"Dude, what're you doing?"

Suddenly the cave had gotten too small, the space was not sufficient to hold both their bodies, and his seemed to grow warmer and more unwieldy with every breath. He tried to play it cool, casual, and of course Kyle had shunned him. It was only natural; he hated the Jew-rat. And the Jew-rat hated him. And that's how it would always be.

But that had been the beginning of a strange phenomena…a thing he dubbed his "Kaaaaahle" feelings. They were sticky and uncomfortable…but not entirely unpleasant. And that was what made them so unbearable. He knew he shouldn't feel like that about anyone, especially Kyle. But Kyle was just so…Kaaaahle that he couldn't help himself. He couldn't stop having the feelings, but he couldn't act on them either. Kyle would never accept them, he knew. He had mended bones and stitch-scars to remind him. He hated the Jew-rat, and the Jew-rat hated him.

But not as much as he hated himself.

This was one of the reasons he hated Kyle. He liked things black and white, no gray spaces. Things were only one thing or another, they couldn't be both or in between. But then Kyle had to come along and _confuse_ everything.

Was it possible to love something and hate it at the same time? He mused on this as Kyle ducked into a men's room, probably to splash water on his face. Something had agitated him while in the English building, Cartman could tell from his jerky manner. Perfect. He wanted Kyle to be off-balance, unsure of himself. He wanted his guard down just long enough to propose his…little proposal.

He had thought of it last night, while brooding in his dark lair of a bedroom. Clutching Clyde frog to his saggy chest, he had chewed his lip while rehearsing, throwing some things away and tweaking others. Now he was sure of exactly what to say, the perfect formula for acquiescence.

But he was still scared to death.

He still wasn't sure if Kyle would tell him no and what he would do if it happened. Every time he tried to think of it he broke out in cold sweat and couldn't think straight. It was a sort of numbing, crippling fear that paralyzed his vocal chords. It was all very well to boast and brag about yourself, that wasn't anything personal, close. If he let Kyle know his feelings, gave the Jew the power to hurt him, he would die. It didn't matter if it was a spiritual death or an emotional one, one would follow the other just as quickly.

The only way to make sure all went according to plan, that Kyle had no chance to reject him, was to take total control. He would present Kyle with a choice, and then slowly do away with his options. He would twist his web tighter and tighter until he had the Jew completely, trapped for an eternity in a world of his making.

All he had to do was say the right thing.

"Hi Kaaaahle."

* * *

_Author's note: I actually had to look up the name of the cave in the Manbearpig episode. I am __**so**__ fired._


	6. Chapter 6

**Cartman 101: Chapter 6**

* * *

The fatass balanced gracefully against one of the lower branches of a redwood, munching cheerily on an apple. He looked prim and neat and was smiling his great big bastard's smile, the one that transformed his lumps-of-fat face into a demented mountain range. Kyle's stomach felt like the elevator he was on dropped seven floors and was now speeding down to hell.

"You know I don't like to run, Kaaaaahle. I had to cut through the tennis courts to get here. You should have a little consideration, y'know?"

Again, the dissonant hypnotic spell of his words threatened to lull Kyle into his old paths. He struggled not to say the next line in the script, refused to give Cartman the satisfaction of controlling him. Instead he bleated something about the weather, and it made Cartman smile even wider to see the difficulty with which he defied him.

"Kaaaahle, I was thinking. About us."

Kyle shut his ears, turned his head away from the manipulation that was coming. He knew that Cartman _did_ need him, on some base, molecular level that he was only partially aware of, but that was covered up by so many layers of malice and obsessive desire and self-hatred that whatever Kyle got from him, he knew it would be wrong. For the both of them.

"You know there can't be-"

"You owe me, big time." He went on as if Kyle hadn't spoken. "What would happen if I told everyone that their precious Jewboy hero did a…silly thing? And that he tried to cover it up all this time?"

Kyle broke in, "I approached _you_, I tried to apologi-"

"Oh, you **can** say that maybe. And people will mostly believe you, _mostly_. But they'll always remember what I said, and that you denied it. And that's what will matter in the end. It doesn't matter if it's true, someone said it and it can't be unsaid."

Of course he had a point. Even denying him acknowledged his statement, admitting that _something_ had happened. Kyle's composure slipped and he fell back on the script.

"You unbelievable fucking bastard." He muttered tonlessly, as he had many times before. Cartman's wicked grin nearly split his wide face.

"So, you see where we are then? You're in the shithouse and I have you firmly by the balls. You so much as cough without my permission and I. Will. _Ruin_ you."

Kyle blinked in frustration, trying to regain his mental armor. He had to fight him, _dammit_, but he was out of practice. He bit his lip and faced away from him as if by action alone he could block the words out.

"It's not like I need your attentions, Jewfag, but I like making you…_do_ things. I like having you under my fist. Just like old times, right _Kaaaaaahle_?"

"No." Kyle grunted. Cartman's smile dipped, only for a fraction of a second, but then it cranked back up to its thousand-watt radiance.

"_**No**_**, **Kaaaahle? I don't know if you understood this, but you don't _get_ to tell **me** no-"

"I meant no, it's not going to be like old times. It can never be like old times again. Never ever, Cartman."

The somewhat sour silence that descended upon them

"Yes." Cartman sighed finally. "I suppose you're right"

* * *

_The light snapped on, throwing a sickly yellowish glare on everything. He sagged limply rather than sat in the chair, his muscles so shot that even though he had ceased to struggle, he was strapped in heavily._

_His head lolled on his neck, his eyes screwed shut against the light. He had been in a dark cell for days, having to find his own mouth in the dark to put food in it, and now he sat under a bare bulb in a room that seemed to be entirely white porcelain. They were very creative about their torture._

_No._

_**He**__ was._

_Kyle didn't know how long he'd been here. Didn't matter. Time wasn't important anyway. When they could kill you any time they wish, every second you drew breath was borrowed time. A fact they were more than happy to point out._

_With his eyes shut, his other senses heightened slightly, and he perceived the room around him better than if he had let the glare blind him. The room was cool with a slightly damp chill to it, like all their rooms. It smelled of hospital antiseptic; again, typical. There was the leathery click of jackboots down the hall-_

_Kyle flinched and immediately felt shame. If his mother and father could see him now, their proud firstborn, afraid of a little fascism. But this was not just any Rhinelander with an SS crest or a nickel-and-dime Goebels. This was the worst of the worst, the head of the Sturmabteilung, Erich Cartmann._

_There was a pause in the rhythmic sound and a squeak as the door was swung open. There was a…dragging sound? Was he getting the hosepipe again? Another squeak as the door was gently but firmly shut, and the rhythm resumed. It stopped just a foot away from his left shoulder, and Kyle tried hard not to think of how vulnerable he was there. There was a matronly tutting, and a sound of dripping water from the same direction. Without warning, a cool, wet cloth dabbed his brow and he started, repressing a yell. A contemptuous little chuckle, and Kyle chided himself again. He had resolved from the beginning not to show his captor any weakness, every withdrawal from his touch was a victory for the other man._

_His face was sponged clean clinically, carefully, with the attentiveness of a doctor and the care of a mother. Cartmann was a man of sharp, brutal contrasts, for every caress there was a fist, and for every healing there was a beating. It's what made him such an effective torturer. He finished and wrung out the probably filthy cloth. Kyle hadn't seen a mirror since he got here, and secretly feared seeing his own face after the kommandar's treatment._

_There was a scrape of metal against porcelain, and he smelled food. Meat. Veal, probably. Hopefully not pork. He heard the fork slide wetly into something, and felt the fork hesitate in the air by his cheek._

"_Öffnen sie ihre augen." He grunted. "Look at me."_

_Endless moments passed before Kyle weighed the dangers of keeping his eyes shut against his reluctance to look Cartmann in the face and the terrible hunger in his stomach. Fluttering his eyes to gradually adjust them to the light, eventually his captor and the fine china plate piled high with delicacies swam into focus. Cartmann's face was unreadable, his trademark smug grin nowhere in sight. He held a forkful of meat poised as if to strike his face like an insect's sting._

"_Open." Erich said. "This is the last time I'll say it. Open."_

_Gaze darting to Cartmann, the fork, Cartmann again, Kyle took the food from the fork with the caution of a wild deer licking salt from a palm. A slight upturn in the corners of Cartmann's eyes was the only indication of his pleasure. Slowly, surely, he fed Kyle the biggest meal he'd had in…god, it felt like years. He felt so full he would burst, and secretly feared he'd have to bring up his meal for whatever reason. He had to be as apathetic towards all of the kommandar's gifts as he could, but he had been hungry for so long and it felt so __**good**__ to be full…_

_Finally he finished, moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes. Now slightly grateful for the support, he let the straps hold him up and followed Cartmann with his eyes. After dabbing Kyle's mouth with a real linen napkin, he had taken up his nightly pacing to prepare for his usual rant. Maybe this time it would be about Israel. Or the ghettos in Prague. Or even the entertainment industry, which he said was fairly clogged with human filth. It didn't really matter. The individual words didn't matter. All it was, really, was Cartmann's voice for an hour or two, his triumph upon imposing his will upon another person successfully. Auschwitz didn't matter, the Final Solution didn't matter, so long as he held this one man in his palm, his reign was complete. He was invincible. _

_But Erich surprised him tonight. He turned from the window with a kindly light in his eyes, a light smile barely touching his lips. He looked almost human. Almost. Because Kyle knew him well enough to recognize the feral gleam in his eye, the minute squeak of a leather-clad fist tightening imperceptibly. He wasn't fooled for a second._

"_Well, Jew." He began, a pleasant, melodious tone belying the hatred in his words. "How do you feel after such a long sojourn in my hospitality?" _

_Kyle swallowed, unsure of his voice. "That depends. The attendants are sloppy but you can't have everything." It was weak, and they both knew it. Did Cartmann's smile grow a millimetre wider?_

"_Well, I shall give them a talking-to. I can't have our precious patron subject to second-rate treatment now can I? After all, I pride myself on __**precision**__." He drew out the last word like a fine thread, tongue caressing it. He did something that Kyle always dreaded and went behind his line of vision. So securely set in the chair, he couldn't turn so much as an inch without losing a lot of hair. He heard the steps echo clearly behind his and felt his spine contract. __**I must be calm,**__ he told himself, __**I mustn't let him see**__-_

_A hand landed on his shoulder, squeezing firmly. He couldn't suppress his jump, and the other hand patted him comfortingly. Another stab of shame, tempered with rage and humiliation. Cartmann maneuvered his mouth next to Kyle's ear, breath misting his glasses._

"_And how would my little Jüden like to come to my personal quarters, hmm? Winter is coming on, and I have a nice little bed picked out for you Schätze, hmm?"_

_Time ticked by, measured by the drip of somewhere in the prison. He was right, it was getting hellishly cold and his throat was a bit strained from screaming. He has to pause a minute to gather up enough spit for what he was going to say._

"_All nice and cozy to your quarters? Where we can cuddle in front of a roaring fire?" A stony silence. "Well, you can fuck your little Schätze bed, and yourself too piggy." He turned with great strain to spit in the kommandar's face, but never got the chance. As Cartmann's great pink visage hove into view, his center of gravity changed and he found himself plummeting away from it. Without the slightest drop in his little bastard's smirk, Cartmann had kicked the chair legs out from under him, and he fell a long way onto a cold, hard floor. All his breathe expelled in a pathetic gasp, he could even scream the pain that came from his bones, his flesh, his very soul-_

_A surgically clean boot toe thrust into his vision, there was the squeak of rubber as his cheek was compressed and his head turned to the side. The bastard had planted a foot on his face. Kyle, even in his current miserable state, could spare a thought for how cliché the gesture was._

"_Das is very funny, Jew-rat." Cartmann snarled in a throaty purr. "But that is the last of my free hospitality, ja? It will be…different from now on."_

_Kyle's mind swam for an instant trying to calculate exactly what different could mean and if it meant worse(of course) but his thoughts immediately scattered as a solid oak truncheon hit the ground beside his head with a teeth-shattering crack. He could only stare as the truncheon was slowly withdrawn from his vision, leaving a fractured dent in the solid cement floor. That would have __**hurt**__. He heard a snide chuckle and felt his stomach contract in anger._

"_Now we understand each other? I have been giving you a free ride, room and board though you have given me nothing back, and have expected nothing of you. I have tolerated you simply for the small joy that your company brings me." Contempt dripped off the words, and the corners of Kyle's vision went red. He would've clenched his jaw if Cartmann had let him._

"_But now is the end of vacation. My superiors are telling me that it is no longer acceptable to keep you, as you are proving less a profit than originally anticipated._

_Kyle burst out with the anger he had barely been keeping in check. "__**Bastard! Schweinehund! You**__-" Cartmann's boot shifted and he felt an ominous click in his jaw._

"_And see? You are not a very gracious guest. So they have told me to make use of you or get rid of you, once and for all. And do you know what?" He leaned in close, his crisp aftershave stinging Kyle's nostrils. "I am prepared to do either. But if I am to let you live, it cannot be as you are now. You are no longer your own being. Your life, your fate, your very __**existence**__ is in __my__ hands." Kyle could practically envision the erection saying those words aloud gave him, and tried to clear his mind of the image. _

"_If I am to keep you," Cartmann went on conversationally, "You are to be mine. Body, mind, soul. __**Mine.**__ You will declare yourself so, and I shall take care of you for as long as you live." He let that threat dangle for a moment. "You will be given the best care, and as much freedom as I trust you with. You will no longer be beaten, by me or anyone else." The way he said the last part made Kyle shudder. What he really meant was "I won't __**need**__ to beat you."_

"_Understand, haustier? I can kill you, and it certainly __**won't**__ be a quick and glorious death, or I can keep you. Your life, your former identity, your Jewish nature, will all be forgotten. I will be the only one who remembers Kyle Broflovski the man. Others will see Kyle Broflovski the pet. The thing. But you will be alive. So which is it? Death, or life? Think about it Schatze."_

_The boot was removed his head. He blinked, finally. "I don't need to. Even if I die, even if you kill me, I will never be yours, verstehen sie? You are pathetic, and I did not think it was possible to pity you before this moment kommandar. But I do. I do pity you. Because somewhere in your puffed-up sense of worth, your bloated ego, you found the gall to ask me this question, to put to words this thought which should never have been spoken in the first place. The answer is and always shall be-"_

_Cartmann's smile tightened a fraction, no more, and he raised his truncheon. His tongue traced the leather idly, leaving a shining trail on the slick leather, before detaching and leaving a delicate saliva bridge for a few eternal seconds. Then it snapped as he raised it up into what no doubt would be the killing blow._

"_-no! __**No! Never, nie, never, ever, never, Cartmann**__!" He was screaming his words now, saliva spattering against the kommandar's immaculate boot. "__**No, no, no, not ever Eric, no no NO NO NONONONO-**_

* * *

**-nononononononononoNO**!" He shouted, heaving himself into a sitting position. It took a moment for him to realize where he was. He was in bed, soaked with sweat, throat raw. His sheets were grasped so tightly he couldn't feel his knuckles, he had to work to unclench them. As he was sitting, trying to get his breath back, his cellphone rang. After spending a few seconds convincing himself he wasn't going to have a heart attack, he flipped it open. "'Yello?"

"Bad dreams, Kaaaahle?" Of _course_ it was him. Who else would be psychotic enough to call him in what was only technically morning?

"Still showing up at people's houses in the middle of the night, I see?" They both chuckled. After that nightmare, Kyle embraced the normalcy of their hostile banter, wanting Cartman to stay far away from becoming the kommandar.

"You need anything Kyle? I could be up in a minute with a glass of warm milk." The words and tone were soothing, but he could detect the threat underlying them. Cartman was more than willing to "help" Kyle make his decision, and Kyle knew he couldn't stand the onslaught right now. Not when he was so vulnerable.

"Naw, that's fine dude. What about you? You okay out there? Aren't you cold?"

"As much as can be expected." Was the dismissive answer. "Will you be at school tomorrow?"(_meaning: you better show up if you know what's good for you.)_

"Of course." (_I wouldn't give you the satisfaction of letting you know how much you've gotten to me._)

"Sleep tight, Kyle." (_I'll be watching you_)

"'night Cartman." (_I have my eye on you_)

The rest of the night he dreamed of a couch so comfortable he felt like an unborn child, cradled in the womb. But he couldn't move. The couch prevented him from leaving, even for a moment. It grew stifling. Towards dawn he imagined a hand smoothing the hair above his forehead.

* * *

_Author's note: sorry, kids and cats, that took a long time to get out. I got sidetracked right in the middle and forgot all about it. I'm terrible like that sometimes, so I made up for it by making this chapter about twice as long as usual. I went to babelfish for the German, so if you really are curious I'd suggest using that, I'm not gonna list them all. The whole Nazi sequence was inspired by __**Jago(**__which I highly suggest__**) **__by Kim Newman, especially one part I won't have to describe if you've read it. Also partly inspired by the weird tendency I have to dream about someone after I come into conflict with them. It's never this severe, but it's definitely…odd. Hopefully see you in the next chapter, if I remember. XD_


	7. Chapter 7

**Cartman 101: Chapter 7**

* * *

There aren't a lot of people in the world who can sleep while writhing in agony from a poorly refrigerated sushi plate. Kyle Broflovski was not one of them.

As he twisted and turned, trying to hold in his stomach with both hands, Kyle had time to contemplate his luck. What were the odds that on the same night he had a bizarre pseudo-sexual masochistic nightmare with his sworn enemy he'd also have terrible gastro-intestinal pain?

…rather good, actually. The one was probably caused by the other. Kyle did not deal well with conflict.

Outside his bedroom window, from a comfortable place in the bushes, Cartman sipped hot cocoa from a thermos and paged through the latest Guns&Ammo while his night vision goggles rested on his lap. In an hour or two he would go home, for now he was enjoying his alone time outside his enemy's house. He loved the dawn before a hunt. And it would be a glorious hunt…

* * *

Kyle ducked and dodged around the court, tripping over his own feet, missing baskets. The whistle blew and he was told to go shower, and he numbly did. His body was like a puppet, obeying his orders but unfeeling. Every fumble inspired a wave of chuckles from his teammates, drawing inquiries if he was on his "lady-time" and if he needed something sanitary. No, all he needed was for everyone to shut the hell up! He couldn't think with all the stares, the looks that were like pinpricks in his body. Even the huddle at the end was embarrassing, a few pointed remarks from the coach in his direction, the sidelong stares, he couldn't help turning beet red.

He ducked into the hall afterwards and narrowly avoided Dee and her friends, silently whispering an apology and promising to make it up to her later. In spite of all this, he knew his feelings for her hadn't changed. Dee was still a sweet, caring girl who looked past his athletic and clerical abilities and saw who he really was…an awkward Jew who tried always to do the right thing. But she liked that about him, and that's what made this whole thing hurt so much. She didn't know about his past, probably couldn't understand the private mental battle between him and Cartman, but if she found out, she would try to help as much as possible. She was, by nature, a loving person. It tore him apart to avoid her like this, when all he wanted to do was lay his head on her breasts and tell her everything that was wrong, let her sooth away the hurt and make it better again. She would…if her asked her… but no. Cartman.

Even the name sent his blood boiling and his stomach in knots. Dee…he couldn't even _imagine_ what Cartman would do to her. Best to keep her safe, away from all this until the end. He knew she'd be hurt, of course she would be, but so far that wasn't the worst thing that could end up happening. If…when he came out of all this, he'd tell her everything. They could decide what they wanted to do afterwards. Right now…sorry, Dee. So, so sorry.

Someone bumped into his shoulder and he recognized the snicker before he even saw the face. Cartman had been popping up all morning, not really following Kyle just…letting himself be seen. _I'm here,_ he seemed to be saying, _don't think you can run away_. He wouldn't even try. He knew that whatever happened, to whoever, it was a long time in coming. And there was no more putting it off. Cartman had him there. He _had_ been avoiding it, sort of, all this time. But no more. He would stand up and confront Cartman, and whatever would happen would happen. If he could just find someplace quiet to think, dammit!

There was nowhere he went on campus that was safe from Cartman. Even the old auto shed where the shop majors went to huff glue; when he swung the wreck of a door open, there was Cartman. He was at the Home EC buildings, on the quad, jogging the track field and wheezing painfully, dipping his toes in the lap pool, and smirking next to him at the urinal. Finally, though, he found peace where no one, not even the literature majors went. The basement of the library, where they stored their ancient card catalog. There, squeezed in between boxes of Mad magazine and water-damaged microfiches, he found the calm that he needed.

Now, he must think. Of how he could end this safely, if not peacefully. He was willing to compromise if it meant that no one got hurt. Or rather, if Cartman didn't hurt anyone. He must think, must clear his head for the battle upcoming…

* * *

Cartman paced around the parking lot liked a caged panther. Kyle was gone, and some part of him couldn't help feeling it was for good. His reinflated ego assured him that there was no way, Kyle had too big of a sense of (_snerk_) honor and wouldn't dare. Still…there was always a possibility that he would pull a Serbian-Jew double bluff- no, stop it, _get out of my head_!

…and so on and so forth. Several of his former friends saw him, some even waved hi, but he neither noticed nor cared. Kyle was everything. If he had Kyle, nothing could bother him again. Even on his worst days, he could remember that the Jew was his, and then nothing else would matter. Not his ageing whore of a mother, not the leers and pitying glances that stung into his skin, not his failing sense of self-worth. He would have the utmost control over another human being, and that thought made his stomach tingle pleasantly.

_But suppose Kyle goes to the Dean,_ sang a little voice in his head. _Suppose he tells his friends and they gang up again, suppose he just kills you with his bare hands, suppose, suppose, __**suppose**__…_

He ate three lunches that day, but it still didn't settle his stomach. Noon came and went without even a whisper from the Jew. He decided at last minute to attend one of his classes, hoping the monotony would ease his mind. Three quiches later, he still couldn't concentrate and was getting dirty looks from the teacher for burning his food. Finally, he mopped the sweat from his forehead with a sleeve and raveled up his apron, tossing it into the bin and earning one last glare from the teacher.

He toyed with his fourth lunch, glumly coming to the conclusion that he was just eating to have something to do. He gave the picked-over calzone to the homeless man in front of the bus stop, who winked at him in a most disconcerting manner. He stumbled around the quad where it all began, his hands opening and closing uselessly, seeing nothing. He saw Kyle's little squeeze and toyed with the idea of walking over and telling her everything, _everything_, just to see the look on her face.

Three o'clock came and went. Three-thirty. Four. The sun dipped low in the sky.

The quad gradually emptied of students, waving bye and calling out admonitions to call soon, writhing and weaving their own ways home. Some to cars, some to the buses, to bikes. They all seemed to know one another and for one brief moment it was like a vice on his heart. Friends. They were _all_ friends. They didn't impose contracts on each other, they didn't have to. Things came so easily to them, problems forgiven at the drop of a hat. There was no question of control, no private power-plays, simply the warmth of companionship, something he had never and could never know. Fire pricked the corner of his eyes. _Remember this,_ his mind whispered. _Remember this, and what it means_.

But eventually everyone was gone and he was alone. The feeling subsided and he was back, his armor firmly in place. And here echoed the footsteps of someone in no particular hurry, someone on their way to something they didn't care about being late to. He knew, even before they turned the corner, who the feet belonged to. Kyle hove into view, looking very calm and unruffled, something about that infuriated him to the point of madness. He considered, for a few moments, the prospect of heaving himself up and charging across the small space between them and dashing his head against the cement. For a few moments. Kyle came to a stop before him and plopped down on the bench opposite, casually sliding the straps of his backpack off either shoulder. Each movement was done with exaggerated care, and icy calm seemed to emanate from him. Cartman felt like he was going to burst into flames, molten heat pouring from his mouth and eyes, rage consuming everything. Then Kyle straightened up and looked him in the eye. _Oh…_

Something, everything clicked into place. He was aware of his own labored breathing, of every minute detail.

They had entered the dance, but this was a new dance. Only one of them would walk away from this alive.

"Hi, Eric." Kyle said softly. He struggled with his own tongue for a moment before responding.

"Hello…_Jew_." Kyle shook his head ever-so-slightly and smiled, silently seeming to say _so we're being like __**that**__, are we_?

"I guess you're wondering where I've been all day…"

"Not really." _Yes, dammit!_ "I could care less about what you do in your spare time." _I thought you left me…_

"Well, I was thinking, Cartman. And… I had kind of hoped…you were doing the same."

He snorted. "You wish." _Think of me, Kyle, only of me…_

"And I came to realize something. This…battle that we've been fighting. It's been hurting the both of us. Both of us scratch and claw, but only at the air, only at each other, and for all of it, we never budge an inch. We've been fighting this war between us for years now and… we never get anywhere. Aren't you sick of that?"

"No." _no, please._ "I can keep fighting you as long as you want, Jew, but I assure you, I _will_ win eventually." _Please, never stop fighting with me Kyle, I don't know what else to do with you!_

"Well, that's just the thing. I don't think this war is winnable. I think both of us fight for lack of something else to do. I think we're both just…putting of the inevitable."

"And what's that?" _please don't say it's over, please, I don't want to hurt you but I will…_

"That we both…need each other a little. We compliment each other, like yin and yang. Like you're the dark half-"

"And you're the light." He said before he could stop himself. _No, why'd you say that? He __can't__ win!_

Kyle nodded, not noticing Cartman's inner battle. "I don't think we can destroy one another because without the other…neither of us is really complete. To destroy me you'd have to destroy part of yourself."

"And?" he said. _I wouldn't mind, wouldn't mind, if only I could keep you…_

"I don't think you realize how serious this is, Cartman. I don't like you, don't like what you do, but…I don't want you to sacrifice your soul. Not even to beat me."

"I wouldn't really care." _Neither would you. Admit it, you've forgotten me…_

"Yes you would. You care. And I think that's what you'd rather die than admit. You care so much about so many things, but you think if you let us know that, we'll…_do_ something."

"I _don't_ care!" he shouted before catching himself. "You may think you can get me with your touchy-feely crap, Jew, but I know-"

"That's just the thing, Cartman." Kyle said wearily. "I'm not fighting you. We're done fighting. It's not getting us anything. All we do is go around in the same circles again and again, and I'm sick of it. One way or another, this ends tonight."

Cartman stiffened at Kyle's tone. The determination in his voice was nothing new, but there was an edge there. _Don't you dare defy me Jew-rat, I'll eat you alive_…

"…so what're you going to do?" His harsh derisive tone made Kyle look up. Cartman's face twisted into a feral snarl, his hands clenched tight into fists. "_Hit_ me? Want everyone to see you hit the fat kid, Broflovski? Want everyone to cheer as you grind his fat disgusting face into the dust you fucking hypocrite? Want to make the blubber baby eat dust? _Huh_?" His voice was nearly pitched at a scream now. Tears of hysteria dotted the corners of his eyes but he couldn't stop himself now if he tried.

"_You fucking Jew-rat backstabbing sonovabitch __**Jüden**_!" He spat, rising. The kiss, when it came, was unexpected. Cartman sat dumbly for a moment, semi-aware of the soft pressure on his lips like it was happening to someone else. Then animal instinct kicked in and he kissed back, violently. He twisted his fingers in the jew's hair and pulled him deeper in a mouth-bruising kiss. This went on for a glorious moment before Kyle ripped them apart.

"No- Cartman- **no**." Kyle said firmly. Cartman stared at him for a moment, face devoid of expression, then he wrenched away. Kyle grabbed him and made him face him again.

"Cartman _no_." He said again. He pressed their forehead together. "Not this time."

He twisted and squirmed but the Jew was strong, stronger. His face burned, his chest was tight, he had to get away-

"No, Cartman," Kyle hissed in his ear, his hot cheek pressed against Kyle's cool one. "No. you're staying. We're working this out. I can't be that for you, I can't- I can't just do that. I won't feed your misery. But I'm not leaving."

Eric's struggles ceased. He felt his heart slow, slower until it was nearly normal. He swallowed past the lump in his throat.

"Really?" he croaked. Kyle held him out at arms length and locked his gaze.

"Yes. I'm staying with you Cartman. We're not fighting any more, and I'm not hurting you like that again. We're going to work it out."

The words echoed in Cartman's head for an eternity, he tasted them, trying them, seeing if it was what he wanted. It wasn't what he expected but it wasn't entirely unwelcome either. In fact it felt-

"Don't cry." Kyle whispered soothingly. "Please don't cry."

It didn't work.

Night fell, the lamps flickering to early life on this cold day, shedding wan light on two figures hunched on a bench, one holding the other protectively. It would be okay after all, maybe…

* * *

_Author's note: and so we come to the end. Hate to have so much innuendo and then leave the ending as ambiguous as this, but a little ambiguity's good for yah. I worked in a Norman Bates quote, for those who are good at spotting this sort of thing;). This will be my last chapter story for a while, I think I needs a little breaky-poo. It's hard to keep from writing each chapter as a standalone story…not a bad idea, now that I think of it. To those who have read from the beginning, sorry for going so long between chapters. Again, quite the procrastinator. I may write a bit of a sequel, if such things tickle my fancy in the future, but for now I think a rest is in order. Be seeing you…_


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